


Not All That Glitters Is Gold

by wolfwithwoodenteeth



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon is on a mission, The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, Undercover Lover Jon, but love is the death of duty..., not spoiler free, post-boatbang, post-kneelgate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 09:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11941341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfwithwoodenteeth/pseuds/wolfwithwoodenteeth
Summary: Sansa is leaning on the armrest of his chair, her face close enough for him to count the freckles on her nose. She pretends to watch the guests as she patiently waits for his answer, only her teeth worrying her plump bottom lip betraying her nerves."I did what I had to do in order for all of us to survive," he finally sighs. "We need her. My feelings are of no consequence."She blinks at him slowly and nods. Across the room Daenerys is staring at him again, the smile on her face replaced with a slight frown.





	1. Chapter 1

The Great Hall is alive with the buzz of Northerners making merry, celebrating the return of their King. Jon can almost allow himself to forget what is certain to come on the morrow, but never completely. Daenerys is across the room, trying to ingratiate herself to his bannermen.

He's never had any illusions about the Lords' reactions to him bending the knee, it's Dany he's worried about. She turns around, flashing him a warm-eyed smile. It stirs something inside him, though he's not sure what. He drains his cup of ale and sits back in his carved chair.

Sansa leans closer to him, the smell of lemon and lavender invading his nostrils. "She loves you," she comments flatly. He turns to find her blue eyes measuring him over the rim of her own cup.

"Aye, I believe she does." he replies slowly.

Sansa sips from her cup and averts her eyes. "Do you love her?"

It's a logical follow-up question, but it still takes him by surprise, most likely because he's been trying to avoid the answer to that question. Does he love her? He likes her and respects her, but he's still not certain he can trust her, and gods, he desires her, he'd be a blind fool not to want her, but love her?

He shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat, before taking Sansa's cup from her hand, gulping down more ale to drown his guilt.

Sansa is leaning on the armrest of his chair, her face close enough for him to count the freckles on her nose. She pretends to watch the guests as she patiently waits for his answer, only her teeth worrying her plump bottom lip betraying her nerves.

"I did what I had to do in order for all of us to survive," he finally sighs. "We need her. My feelings are of no consequence."

She blinks at him slowly and nods. Across the room Daenerys is staring at him again, the smile on her face replaced with a slight frown.

***

It goes exactly the way Jon expected it to happen. Sansa is the only one who stands up for him and it would warm his heart, if he didn't see Arya quietly slipping from the room after his announcement, if Bran didn't sit there watching it all unfold, his face devoid of any emotion.

He reminds them that Daenerys is helping them and that they need to band together. They can't afford to fight a war amongst themselves, but the Northerners are stubborn. Davos jumps to his feet, exasperation written on his grizzled face, but Jon shakes his head. The Onion Knight is as much an outsider as any other Southroner, his words won't be of any help here.

Sansa tries to shame the lords for turning their backs on the King they chose, but even little Lyanna Mormont doesn't yield.

Lord Glover spits on the floor. "Another King who's willing to give up the North for a foreign whore's cunt!"

"We came here for you and you gave us justice when you sentenced Lord Baelish to death, Lady Stark," Lord Royce commences. "But you can't expect us to trust a Targaryen!"

"Our King is making the sacrifices he deems necessary to ensure all of us will survive this war," Sansa points out calmly. "We can't fight it alone."

After those words, Daenerys rises to her feet and Jon grips the edge of the table. "And that is why I have come here, My Lords. I don't want to conquer the North. I intend to save it."

Slowly and with difficulty, his face red, Lord Manderly pushes himself up. "And what about after? What do you expect us to do after you've _saved us all?_ Bend the knee? To a conqueror who's barely spent a day in the North and doesn't know the first thing about it?"

She can't confirm it, they'll never accept it. She can't deny it, they'll never believe her. Manderly takes her silence as answer enough, not turning away when he points at Sansa. "There sits the only Queen I mean to bend my knee to. The Queen in the North."

He can see the shock on Sansa's face, though she must have expected it as well. "The North remembers," Lady Mormont reminds them all. "We know no queen but the Queen in the North whose name is Stark."

Sansa stands up, slowly, gracefully to the chants of "Queen in the North!" filling the hall.

Daenerys grabs his hand. "Do something!"

"I can't," he admits.

"You're their King!"

He offers her a sad smile. "Not anymore, remember?"

She stares at him incredulously, as if she's forgotten what this meeting was about in the first place. "These Northerners are small-minded people."

Her words send a pang through his chest, but he can't show her. "They're just stubborn, loyal to their own, suspicious of outsiders. They don't know you. If you prove yourself to them, show them your strength, they'll be more willing to follow you."

Realisation flickers in her eyes. "Like the Dothraki."

"I suppose so," he agrees half-heartedly, adding: "Aye, like the Dothraki," when he sees the look on her face. 

 ***

He finds himself at the heart tree and Sansa is already there, lost in thought, stroking Ghost's shoulder where he's sitting next to her on his haunches. She blinks and smiles at him, cautiously, almost apologetically. He doesn't blame her. He knew he couldn't refuse when they chose him and neither could she. 

"Would you like me to bend the knee?"

He realizes it was the wrong thing to say, even before he sees the look on her face. Sansa is gone and her icy mask, so befitting her new title of Queen of Winter, slips into place. "You can't serve two queens."

He flinches at hearing his own words being flung back to him. "I already pledged myself to her. If I betray her now, we're lost."

She doesn't answer, just stares at the snowflakes falling down around them.

"It was the only way."

"I know that, Jon," she muses. "Are you going to marry her?"

"What?"

"It seems like the most obvious solution. You'd strengthen your alliance. It might convince her to let the North have its independence."

He sits down beside her, leaning his forearms on his knees. "There's no time for that now. We have a war to fight."

"And what about after?"

He's seen King's Landing, where people live crammed together like livestock. It's humid and stuffy, too warm even in winter and the foul stench still hasn't left his nostrils. He could never belong there. "I belong here, in the North, with my family."  _With you,_ he'd like to add, but he doesn't even know why that's different, so he holds his tongue.

She tilts her head. "So when this war is over, and all is said and done, she'll be our enemy, because you can't finish what you've started? The game is dangerous."

It is and he's in over his head. If both he and Daenerys return from the war alive, it'll start all over again. "Perhaps it would be easier for everyone if I don't return."

She chuckles darkly and her eyes shine fiercely. "Oh no, Jon, you  _will come back_ to me. As your Queen I command it."

"As My Queen?" he whispers, offering her a half-smile.

"You said it yourself, you belong in the North. You're a Stark. In Winter we must protect ourselves, look after one another."

_I'm not a Stark,_ the ever-present voice inside his head urges him to remind her, but she'll just tell him he's wrong again. He was a fool to think it would all finally be easy. They need Daenerys now and he can't deny he's grown fond of her, but he's not blind to her selfish ambitions. She'll honour their alliance, for now, but what if the war is over and she'll find Sansa standing in her way?

"So, should we hope that..." He can't finish the question, it's too cruel a thought, but a man can't lie in front of the heart tree and Sansa doesn't need more words to understand.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So he finds himself in the Godswood again, the only place where he can be alone, except it appears he's not right now. There's a figure already standing in front of the heart tree. She turns slightly and some auburn locks spill from her hood, framing her profile. He pauses and enjoys the sight of her relaxed posture and flushed face, smiling and imagining that things are still simple and she'd smile back at him with softness in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jaime scene was one of the first that came to mind when I started thinking about writing this story. Others have managed to write and publish similar scenes before I could, so I'm sorry if it seems repetitive, but it was always supposed to be part of this story.

 Sansa is standing in the courtyard, Arya and Brienne by her side. Bran has gone back to the Godswood to search for more glimpses of the future. Daenerys is waiting across the yard with Tyrion, Missandei and Varys and a dozen guards of Unsullied and Dothraki.

Jon emerges from a hallway connecting the yard to the training grounds and pauses, meeting Sansa's eyes. She gives him an almost imperceivable nod and he walks over to stand beside Daenerys, his face more sullen than usual.

She beams at him when she sees him approaching, but his answering smile doesn't reach his eyes. She doesn't seem to notice.

The gates are opened and the small Lannister retinue that was spotted a couple of hours ago enters through them. The men dismount and Jaime Lannister removes his helmet.

Missandei takes a step forward, but Ser Jaime walks right past the Dragon Queen and her guard to kneel in front of Sansa and lay his sword at her feet. Her lips part in surprise and she takes a quick glance around the courtyard. She's just in time to see Daenerys' satisfied smile slip from her face, which pulls into a frown.

She steers her attention back to the kneeling man who's staring up at her. "Lady Stark," he starts, but Arya corrects him: "Your Grace!"

"Your Grace," he amends, amusement thick in his voice. "I once swore an oath to your Lady Mother. I've come North because I intend to uphold that vow. Queen Sansa, I offer you my services. I will shield your back, and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Audible gasps rise up around the yard and Sansa risks another glance at the Dragon Queen. She sees the square set of her jaw and shoulders and can almost feel her ire burning behind her face. Her small fists are balled at her sides, but then Jon puts a hand on her arm and she seems to relax under his touch.

He doesn't remove his hand and Sansa can't pull away her gaze. Her stomach twists, leaving a bad taste in her mouth and it takes Jaime Lannister loudly clearing his throat to make her realize he's still on his knees before her. She looks to her right, where Brienne is standing, smiling and pride gleaming in her eyes.

Arya narrows her eyes, but nods, so Sansa answers him, her voice surprisingly steady: "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring your dishonour. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise."

He does so and sheathes his sword, while low murmurs rise up all around them.

"Ser Jaime," Daenerys calls out, breaking free from Jon's hold. "What news from your sister's armies? When will they arrive to assist us?"

There's true regret in his eyes before he turns to her, but he's not looking at Sansa, it's Brienne's eyes he's seeking. "They're not coming," he announces in a firm voice. "My sister never meant to keep her promise. But I do."

Sansa studies Daenerys and Tyrion's faces, finding them genuinely surprised, but she recognizes only grim determination in the familiar way Jon purses his lips. She assumes he never expected Cersei to stay true to her word, which means he's been listening to at least some of the advice she's been trying to give him.

She clasps her hands together and sighs. She never counted on Cersei's help, was wary to say the least when they brought her the news of the Lannister approach, but it obviously matters to the Dragon Queen.

Again, Ser Jaime has to pull her from her thoughts. "Your Grace," he tells her, "I've brought you a token of good faith."

It takes a while for her to recognize the man who approaches her next, who gapes at her before whispering: "You look so much like Cat."

She almost flinches at that, but pushes it back when she realizes who the man in front of her is and smiles. "Uncle Edmure!"

"Can we talk in private, my dear niece?"

"Your Grace," Ser Jaime corrects him, arching an eyebrow.

Across the courtyard, Jon is already leading Daenerys away, so she nods in agreement.

*** 

If Jon had his way he'd be in the training yard all day or hide away in the Godswood until they're leaving for the Gift. He can't avoid Sansa, she's been organising and preparing the North in his absence, they have so much to discuss. Besides, he'd hurt her by staying away and it's not as if that's what he wants anyway. But she's colder, less passionate when they talk. He can truly say he misses their fights. It's not the same as before, something has come between them, or rather someone.

And that someone would like him to avoid Sansa, demands he spends every free moment with her. It's not that he wants to avoid Daenerys' company, but her constant criticising of the North and questioning of Sansa's actions and motivations is exhausting him.

She can't even let it go when they're in bed together. Lately those have become the only moments he can truly enjoy her company without a thousands doubts and misgivings about everything he's doing flashing through his mind all the time and now she's made even that impossible.

It's as if she's become a dragon herself, digging her claws in to hold on to him. It's not as if he wants to run from her, but her aggression is waking his animal instincts and it's better to flee than to stay and fight.

So he finds himself in the Godswood again, the only place where he can be alone, except it appears he's not right now. There's a figure already standing in front of the heart tree. She turns slightly and some auburn locks spill from her hood, framing her profile. He pauses and enjoys the sight of her relaxed posture and flushed face, smiling and imagining that things are still simple and she'd smile back at him with softness in her eyes.

He releases a deep sigh and she tilts her chin up, as she's wont to do when she's bracing herself for something unpleasant, her eyes flitting around nervously until they settle on him and she lowers her chin again. "Oh," she says. "It's just you."

He closes the distance between them and raises his eyebrows at her. "Just me?"

The corner of her mouth quirks up. "Well, I assume you're not here to talk my ear off, tell me how to rule the North or make ridiculous demands of me?"

"I'm not," he huffs, answering her half-smile with his own. "I came here to be alone, but I keep finding you here."

She chuckles. "Great minds... Walk with me?" she asks, looping her arm through his at his nod. He blinks at her unexpected touching him before falling into step with her. For a while they walk in silence.

"It appears my uncle is not fond of you. He warned me not to trust you and said he had reason to doubt your true allegiance," Sansa remarks suddenly.

"Well, he is your mother's brother. It shouldn't come as a surprise," he mutters through gritted teeth.

She turns to smile at him. "I told him I trust you completely and that you know what you're doing."

 _Do I?_ "What else did your uncle have to say?" He suspects this is not what she really wants to talk about. It's something she does often, approaching a certain subject by mentioning one that's somehow related to it.

He can feel her take a deep breath. "Robb was King of the Trident as well as the North. Uncle Edmure means to declare for me if I reinstall him as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

He briefly closes his eyes. "It was wise of him to discuss that matter in private."

"I know," she sighs, looking at him and biting her lip. "I told him so. Public declarations can wait until after we've won the war."

 _Let's hope he waits for a very long time._ If only the Kingslayer had left the man wherever he'd found him. "Sansa," he begins, coming to a halt. "What if- what if Jaime Lannister brought your uncle here to sow discord, to weaken our alliance with Daenerys?"

She narrows her eyes at him as she pulls her arm back. "My uncle wouldn't plot behind my back with Jaime Lannister!"

"You hardly know the man!"

"True, but he has no reason to-" she stops midsentence, mouth falling open. She shakes her head. "No, that's ridiculous."

"What?" he demands.

"It doesn't matter. It was just a silly thought, wouldn't make any sense."

He clasps her elbow. "Tell me, Sansa."

She exhales sharply through her nose. "Fine. My uncle urged me to find a husband as soon as possible. And with your talk of him and Jaime Lannister plotting... For a moment there I thought..."

His face pulls into a frown and his stomach lurches. "You think your uncle wants you to marry Jaime Lannister?"

"Of course not!"

"But you said..." He lets go of her arm, bile rising in his throat as rage starts bubbling in his chest. 

She rolls her eyes. "I  _said_ it was a ridiculous thought!"

 _Aye, but do you believe it is?_ "Would you consider it?"

She blinks. "Would...? No!"

Her pause gives her away. "You would!"

She starts marching away from him, muttering: "It doesn't matter, that's not the point!"

He storms after her, turning her by the shoulder. "Then what is the point, Sansa?"

She glares at him, chest heaving. "The point is that I am Queen, but my uncle thinks I should find a King. He even proposed to act as my regent as long as I am unwed, as if I am a child! The point is that he's not the only one who seems to be of that opinion! The point is I wouldn't have to deal with any of it, if you hadn't bent the knee!"

She shakes his hand off and runs away, leaving him to wallow in all his guilt and shame.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His words wound her, he can see it in her eyes. She does love him, or at least she loves the man she imagines him to be. And he recognises something he's only seen a glint of a couple of times, a desire to be loved which makes her more human, more likeable. It only causes him to hate himself more than he already does, but he can't allow that to bother him. I'm the shield that guards the realms of men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arianna was wondering how Arya was feeling about all of this, so I decided to write the first scene in this chapter from her POV to give you some insight on her thoughts and feelings!
> 
> Bran is not telling Jon about his parentage in this chapter yet, but it's coming soon, I promise! If D&D can give our poor boy horrible timing for plot reasons, then so can I! Lol, no seriously, I guess you could explain it by saying Bran's sense of time isn't the same as a regular person's anymore, so he sort of loses track of it... 
> 
> And unfortunately Jon still is fucking Dany in Winterfell (not in his room though, just in the guest rooms, which are in another building, so...) There was simply no way out of it, she's suspicious and difficult enough as it is, as you'll see in this chapter...
> 
> So a lot of Dany arguing with other people in this chapter, I guess, but she's not getting a POV until later, which will be for one very specific purpose...

Arya lets her hand rest on Needle, hidden away in the shadowy corner of Sansa's solar. The two women facing each other on opposite sides of the desk seem to have forgotten her presence there. She tilts her head, studying the Dragon Queen's delicate features, her alabaster skin, her bright violet eyes and her intricately braided silver hair. She resembles a drawing of Visenya Targaryen Arya once saw in a book, except smaller and softer.

It's almost as if Daenerys is wearing someone else's face, Arya muses. This dainty, pretty creature in front of her doesn't match the fierce and fiery rage inside that is only visible in her eyes.

Arya was so excited when she first heard Jon was bringing Daenerys back to Winterfell.  _Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains._ But she's not part of the pack, and Sansa is. Arya knows her sister no longer wants a knight to protect or save her - she can take care of herself - but she's ready, just in case.

Sansa sits down, folding her hands. "Would you please tell me what this is about, Your Grace? I have a lot of work to do."

Daenerys glares down at her. "I want the Kingslayer."

Sansa looks up at her calmly. "I don't understand why this matter has suddenly become so urgent, to be honest. You have a truce with the Lannisters."

"And Cersei broke that truce!"

"But Ser Jaime hasn't," Sansa points out. "He betrayed the woman he loved his entire life to honour your agreement. That ought to mean something to you."

Arya doesn't like the Kingslayer's presence here.  _He killed Jory._ She doesn't like the Imp being here either. The Lannisters shouldn't be allowed inside these walls, but if she can tolerate one brother for Jon, she can tolerate the other for Sansa. And for Brienne. 

She cornered him after Sansa retreated inside with their uncle Edmure. " _What are you doing here?_ " she asked him, staring him dead in the eye. The easy, smug smile slipped from his face and he acknowledged her with a nod. " _You and your sister are my last chance at honour, My Lady."_

 _"I'm not a lady,"_ she corrected him, still holding his gaze. There was no lie in his explanation. It was as honest as the oath he'd sworn to Sansa.  _"I believe you,"_ she told him eventually.  _"But that doesn't mean I can forget what you've done. If you betray us, I'll kill you myself."_

Daenerys jerks her head to the left, clenching her fists. "That doesn't change the fact that Cersei betrayed us. What kind of Queen am I if I'm just going to let that pass? We had an agreement, but that's become void. I want justice for this betrayal and I want justice for my father."

 _Justice? Or revenge?_ It's a desire Arya knows all too well. A thirst that demands to be quelled, but its satisfaction is fleeting and often only leaves one feeling more empty. At least Arya has her family to fill that hole inside of her, what does Daenerys have?

"I have suffered at the Lannister's hands. I lost my Mother, my Father and two brothers because of them," Sansa answers after a short pause. "Ser Jaime is not innocent in those matters and neither is Lord Tyrion."

Daenerys opens her mouth, but Sansa holds up a hand to silence her. "I want a great many things, Your Grace. And I'm sure if circumstances were different, my bannermen would be at my door this very moment to demand both brothers' heads. But what we want doesn't matter right now. Politics must wait. When the war is over, we can talk again."

"And yet here you sit calling yourself Queen."

Arya can't pretend it doesn't hurt. She had to escape the Hall when all those lords turned their backs on Jon. " _You're a bunch of bloody traitors,_ " she wanted to scream at them. " _He's only trying to save all you buggering idiots!_ "

Instead she quietly slipped from her chair and left, her tongue bloody from biting it too hard, but at night when she lay in her bed, trying to fight back the traitor tears, Lord Manderly's words played over and over in her mind. 

 _"Your Father and trueborn brothers died for the North,"_  he told Jon. _"My son died for the Young Wolf's cause. All of us here have lost fathers or brothers or sons, or even mothers and sisters. They died for the North, and you gave it away as if it was nothing. How can you expect us to still follow you after that?"_

She knows Jon understands that. He isn't stupid. Yet he still bent the knee to Daenerys. Because he loves her, if the rumours are true. And they must be true. He hasn't talked to Arya in weeks. Sansa cried herself to sleep last night after they met in the Godswood. Bran keeps saying he needs to speak with Jon, yet he never does. So it must be true, Jon loves Daenerys, and he loves her more than he loves them.

Perhaps it's their own fault. Who could love the dark, broken things they've become? Jon's tried, he was so happy when he first saw her, she could tell, but he must have realized she's not his little sister anymore. It must be so much easier to love the beautiful and powerful Dragon Queen. 

She blinks to bring herself back to the present, finding the two Queens still facing each other.

Sansa is not fazed by Daenerys' accusation. "The only reason I accepted the crown is because I can't afford the Northern lords fighting a war amongst themselves with the army of the dead approaching," she states in a pleasant voice. "Northern independence is another matter we can discuss after the war has ended."

Daenerys purses her lips. "Fair enough," she concedes. "But then I demand you give me the Kingslayer as compensation, Lady Stark."

Sansa rises to her full length to tower over the other woman, regarding her with an icy glare, chin tilted up. "Need I remind you you are a guest in _my_ home, _Lady Targaryen_?"she asks, enunciating all the words coolly and slowly. "You do not make demands of me here. Ser Jaime is my sworn sword and I will not use his life as a gambling tool in pointless negotiations. I've entertained this discussion long enough for my brother's sake and out of respect for our alliance, but this conversation is over."

Daenerys turns around and leaves, slamming the door behind her. Sansa slumps back in her seat and Arya emerges from her corner to squeeze her sister's shoulder.  _I hope she's worth it, Jon._

***

Daenerys storms into his chambers without knocking.  _Someone has woken the dragon._ Jon can see it in her eyes, that gleam of madness that made him flinch the first time he witnessed it. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

"I'm leaving," she informs him. 

He wasn't expecting that. He shakes his head as he approaches her, frowning. "What? Why?"

"Your sister refused to give me the Kingslayer!"

He clenches his jaw. He doesn't want to think of Sansa and Jaime Lannister in the same context. He's not sure how to answer, so he remains silent. 

She closes the distance between them, raging on: "I summoned her and she had the nerve to send me a note, _kindly_ inviting me to discuss matters in her solar!"

He has to suppress a smile. Of course Sansa would use the rules of propriety to assert her authority. "She didn't mean to offend you," he says softly, taking her hand. "If roles were reversed and we were still at Dragonstone, she'd extend you the proper courtesy and answer your summons. Sansa just likes doing things by the rules. She's Queen and Winterfell is her seat. This is her home, so-"

Daenerys pulls her hand away and narrows her eyes at him. "Yes, she reminded me of that as well. She betrayed you, stole your bannermen and usurped your throne! Doesn't that bother you?"

 _Out of the two of us, Sansa is not the usurper. That was me._ "There was no throne to usurp," he reminds her. "I bent the knee, remember?"

"Technicalities," she scoffs.

 _If that's true, then why did I even bother?_ He takes a deep breath and cups her cheek, feeling her relax slightly under his touch. "Dany, please, listen to me," he implores her. "Sansa is not your enemy."

For a moment her eyes soften, but then her mouth becomes a hard line. "But Cersei is. I talked to Tyrion earlier. His brother told him she's bringing sellswords from Essos. I can't let her do that."

He releases her and can't stop his nostrils from flaring. "You can't leave now! You promised!"

"That was before Cersei betrayed us!"

If only Jaime Lannister had stayed with his sister. Why did he choose to leave Cersei now, after all these years of doing her bidding without questioning? Why did he have to come here and distract Daenerys with the idea of her precious throne being threatened? He sighs and looks down, taking her hand again, noting how small and fragile it looks in his own larger one. He's disgusted with himself for what he's about to do, but he has no choice.

He glances up and he knows there's sadness in his eyes. "Don't you love me, Daenerys Stormborn? Don't you care about my family and my people?"

His words wound her, he can see it in her eyes. She does love him, or at least she loves the man she imagines him to be. And he recognises something he's only seen a glint of a couple of times, a desire to be loved which makes her more human, more likeable. It only causes him to hate himself more than he already does, but he can't allow that to bother him.  _I'm the shield that guards the realms of men._

She licks her lips and collects herself, pulling her hand away. "Your people don't want me. They prefer her."

He closes his eyes, flexing his sword hand before meeting her gaze. "If you leave now, you're only proving them right."

She nods. "I'll stay," she says, before turning around. She pauses at the door. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

She twists around to search his face. "If it came down to it, and you had to choose between me and her, what would you do?"

For a couple of moments he can only gape at her.  _Are you truly asking me to choose between you and my family?_ It's not a question he wants to answer. He shouldn't have to choose at all.

"It won't come to that," he assures her.

She tilts her head, a curious curl to her lips that can't possibly be a smile. "What if it does?"

He flexes his hand again. "It won't."

When the door clicks shut, he sinks down on his bed, planting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his face with both hands. He's already changed his clothes, but he needs to get back out again. If he can't find someone willing to spar, he'll let off some steam by hacking a training dummy to shreds.

He opens the door to find Arya leaning against the opposite wall, eyes focused on him.

He offers her a cautious smile. "I was starting to wonder whether you still lived here."

"That's because you spend so much time with her, stupid," she tells him, rolling her eyes in the direction in which Daenerys must have left. 

 _Not you as well now,_ he groans internally. "Do-" he swallows a small lump in his throat. "Do you hate me, little sister?"

She shakes her head, smiling. "You're an idiot."

He's not sure whether she's talking to herself or addressing him.

Suddenly she's embracing him, her skinny arms closing so abruptly and tightly around his middle it knocks the breath out of him. "I could never hate you, big brother," she murmurs into the leather covering his chest.

She releases him and smirks. "Where you off to?"

"Training yard."

"Good, I'll bet you a gold dragon I can kick your arse into the dirt."

He laughs as they turn around the corner. It feels good. He can't tell how long it's been since he laughed out loud.

"You can talk to me, you know," Arya suddenly offers.

He purses his lips. "I can't."

"You talk to Sansa."

 _I try._ "That's different."

"How?"

He's not sure how to explain it. The bond he's come to share with Sansa is so different from the one he has with Arya. He can't quite put it into words. Besides, he's done enough talking for today. "She's better at it than we are."

She chuckles. "True."

As they enter the courtyard, he sees Sam emerging from the kennels. He feels his face stretching into a smile again and lifts his hand to wave at his friend, but Sam freezes when he meets his eyes. Before Jon can react, he's whirled around and scurried off into the opposite direction. 

"What's wrong with him?" he wonders aloud.

Arya shrugs and makes a dismissive sound. "Come on. It's getting dark, I don't want you complaining I cheated by putting you at a disadvantage."

He shakes his head at her odd comment, but decides to let it go.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've never been more than a nameless bastard," he murmurs into the fabric of her dress, his breath hot and damp as it seeps all the way through to her skin. "But I had one thing to hold onto, that Ned Stark was my father. And now I've lost even that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and reviews!
> 
> It really makes me happy to see some of you react so strongly to my story :)
> 
> I just wanted to take a moment to say that I do appreciate suggestions, and sometimes I do draw inspiration from some of your comments, but (I feel so bad using that word ever since Jon's horseshit comment, please forgive me) I just want to write my own story, give you my own vision. I've noticed in the past when I started thinking too much about other people's opinions on how I should write my story, it took away a lot of the joy of writing, as if I'd somehow lost the story in a way. I don't know if that makes sense, but the result is that it's very difficult for me to return to those fics, meaning they've been abandoned for a while...
> 
> What I'm trying to say is: don't stop commenting, please give me your thoughts and suggestions, but don't expect me to write the story the way you'd like it to go. This is my story and I know what I want to do with it. I always change things along the way and I do end up taking some unexpected detours, but I know where I'm going.
> 
> Thanks again for all the lovely comments!

Bran sits staring into nothingness, not responding to Sansa's attempts to make conversation. It still unnerves her, how her sweet and lively little brother has changed into this solemn semblance of a man. There are precious moments when the Bran she used to know slips through, but they're scarce.

"Why did you want us to come here, Bran?"

His face remains blank as he answers: "I'll explain when Jon gets here. He needs to know."

Sansa frowns and exchanges a look with Samwell Tarly, who smiles back nervously. The portly man with the kind face who used to be Jon's fellow brother of the Watch seems to be trying to blend in with the walls, as if to make himself invisible.

She wonders why Bran has called them into his chambers this early. They haven't even broken their fast yet. If he gets this over quickly, she can return to all the work that's waiting for her in her solar.

Jon enters with Arya, mussing her hair before closing the door and Sansa smiles at their happy faces. 

"Come sit closer to the fire," Bran says and a chill runs down Sansa's spine. It's what Old Nan used to say before she told one of her scary stories. 

Jon sits on the other end of the settee Sansa is occupying and Arya folds herself down onto the furs covering the floor, leaning back between Jon and Sansa's legs.

Bran blinks at his youngest sister, as if he's seeing her for the first time. "You really do look like her," he remarks. 

Jon clears his throat. "You wanted to talk to us, Bran? We're all here now."

"Sam and I discovered the truth," Bran states flatly. "Tell them what you found in the Citadel, Sam."

Sam shuffles out of his corner and throws a nervous glance at Jon. "Well, it wasn't me, really. It was Gilly. She found it in a book called- you wouldn't be interested in all of that. The point is, she found out that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen annulled his marriage to Elia Martell so he could wed Lyanna Stark."

"Our Aunt Lyanna?" Arya asks.

"But Rhaegar kidnapped and raped Aunt Lyanna. Why would she agree to marry him?"

"That's the story we've been told our entire lives, isn't it, Sansa?" Bran tilts his head. "But that story is a lie. Rhaegar and Lyanna loved each other."

Jon looks from his friend to Bran. "So you're saying Rhaegar set his wife aside and turned their children into bastards because he was in love with our Aunt Lyanna?"

"That's stupid!" Arya decides and Sansa agrees. Her younger self would have swooned at hearing such a tale, but all she can think now is  _poor Elia, poor Rhaenys, poor Aegon._ As if their deaths weren't tragic enough.

"It can't be true," Arya continues. "Aunt Lyanna died! Rhaegar killed her!"

"He did," Bran agrees.

"How can that be right?" Sansa asks. "He loved her and yet he still killed her? That doesn't make sense, Bran."

"What Bran is trying to say," Sam explains, finally coming into the full light of the fire, hands on the back of Bran's chair, "technically, in a way, Rhaegar did kill her. She died giving birth to his trueborn son, Aegon Targaryen."

"But Elia's son was named Aegon Targaryen!" Sansa exclaims.

Sam giggles nervously. "For some reason it was really important to Rhaegar that his son be named Aegon."

"Father found Aunt Lyanna in the Tower of Joy. She made him promise to protect her son from Robert Baratheon's wrath. It was her dying wish."

Arya is leaning forward, eagerly listening for the conclusion of the story. "But what happened to the baby?"

Bran is staring at Jon and Sansa already knows. "Father brought him home to raise as his own. He lied to Mother. He lied to all of us."

Jon has frozen into place. He looks as if he's carved from stone and Sansa is tempted to reach out to check if he's still breathing.

"No," Arya whispers. "It can't be true. Jon can't be a Targaryen." She pushes herself to her feet and turns around to face him. "This doesn't change anything. You're still our brother."

He doesn't respond. Sansa's not even certain he's heard Arya's words. Her sister's eyes bore into hers, begging her. "Tell him, Sansa!"

Sansa opens her mouth, but she seems to have lost the ability to speak.  _Rhaegar's trueborn son... Gods!_ If Daenerys finds out the Iron Throne is rightfully Jon's... Sansa doesn't even want to imagine what she might do. 

"No one can know," she manages to whisper.

"Jon!" She clasps his hand and her touch finally seems to pull him out of his stupor. He meets her eyes, but his are not really there.

"We need to keep this a secret."

He licks his lips, eyebrows knitting together.

If their bannermen find out, they might literally throw Jon out of Winterfell right away.

He blinks once and rises, pulling away from her grasp, and leaves the room, Arya trailing after him.

Sansa opens and closes her mouth, glaring from Bran to Sam. The latter lowers his head to stare at his boots, but Bran meets her stare calmly and says: "He needed to know."

***

By the time Arya storms into her chambers by midday, Sansa hasn't been able to make any progress with the letters and ledgers in front of her. Maths has never been her strong suit and her mind keeps drifting to Jon. She drops the ledger she's holding and leans over the desk to look at Arya.

Her sister needs to catch her breath and she thinks it's more due to the simmering frustration that she can hardly keep contained than to any physical exertion. She just stands in the doorway, chewing the inside of her cheek and glaring at a spot behind Sansa's shoulder.

"Close the door," she urges her. "How is he?"

To her surprise her sister obeys immediately and then words start falling out of her mouth. "He sat on his knees in front of the heart tree for over an hour, caressing the fucking bark as if he's in love with it and refused to say as much as a word to me! Then suddenly he got up and went to the training yard."

"That's good, right?" Sansa manages to interject. That sounds like a normal thing for Jon to do. 

Arya's chewing has moved on to her lip and she cocks her head as she puts her hands on her hips. 'That depends, I s'pose. If you consider destroying three training dummies, two tourney swords and a Targaryen banner a good thing."

Sansa sighs as she tilts her head back against her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, and Harry Hardyng needs stitches."

"Who's Harry Hardyng?"

Arya shrugs. "Some square-jawed ponce from the Vale. He has good hair, you'd like him."

"Oh," Sansa mutters. "Ser Harrold, of course! Why does he need stitches?"

"Jon!" she exclaims in exasperation, as if that's obvious. "Why do you reckon Bran thought it a good idea to tell him now?" After a short pause she adds: "So, what are you going to do?"

Her mouth falls open. "Me? Why me? Shouldn't you try to talk to him?"

She rolls her eyes. "Jon doesn't talk to me anymore. He does talk to you  _because that's different and you're actually good at it,"_ she explains in an eerily good impression of Jon's low rasp.

She covers her mouth to hold in a giggle. "He said that?" The idea makes her feel oddly warm inside.

"He's just trying to protect you," she adds when she sees Arya's face. "You're his little sister and he doesn't want to burden you. He was like that with me at first, too."

"But not anymore," Arya points out. "So you should go and talk to him!"

She rises and starts pacing the room. "Arya, I think Jon just needs some time to deal with this on his own."

"Fine. Give him some time, but not too much!"

With those words Arya is out the door again, no doubt back to the training yard to get rid of her own frustrations.

***

It's already dark outside when Sansa finally finds him in his chambers, nursing a cup of ale in front of a roaring fire, clad in nothing but his breeches. His eyes are slightly unfocused and red-rimmed when he looks up at her. He tries to smile but it seems oddly out of his place on his drawn face.

She's not sure how to proceed so she sits down in the chair next to him and joins him staring into the flames. This close she can smell the ale on his breath and from the dark stain on the right knee of his breeches and she realizes he must be quite far into his cups. Her body involuntarily tenses up as her throat clenches shut, but she takes deep breaths to steady herself.  _Jon won't hurt me._

She pulls her gaze away from the fireplace and allows herself to take him in. For once his curls are out of their bun, loosely framing his face, which despite the lines of worry and fatigue on it, is still strong and handsome. He has the body of a soldier. His arms, back and shoulders have that chiseled look she used to admire. She wonders what it would feel like to run her hands through those soft curls and down his hard muscles.

Suddenly he turns to her and she's startled back into reality, hoping he can't see the flush on her face and neck in the firelight. "Sansa," he slurs, grinning and slightly lisping over the s-es and she decides she rather likes it.

"I went to tell the dragons I'm not a Targaryen, but they seemed to disagree," he informs her.

She blinks at him in confusion. "What do you mean: they seemed to disagree?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?" he clarifies with another grin, raising his cup. 

Anger flares up in her chest when she realizes what he's done. She ought to scream at him for being such an idiot, but in his current condition the sentiment would probably be lost on him.

He drains his cup, pushing himself to his feet with difficulty, and manages to kneel in front of her with surprising grace. For a moment he holds her gaze, his own eyes hollow and whispers her name again. His gaze drops then and his face pulls into a frown.

"I never physically bent the knee to her," he mutters pensively, pouting all the while. "She's my aunt," he starts counting on his fingers. "You're my cousin, so is Bran. And Arya. And... Ned Stark is not my father."

Before Sansa can process his words, he leans into her, laying his head in her lap. His shoulders start jerking and muffled whimpers start filling the room. It takes a couple of moments for her to realize that he's sobbing. She starts stroking his head, running her fingers through his curls, as she imagined doing earlier. They're even softer than she thought they'd be.

His arms close around her waist, his cheek pressing into her lower belly and she puts one hand on his hot bare shoulder as she continues caressing his hair.

"I've never been more than a nameless bastard," he murmurs into the fabric of her dress, his breath hot and damp as it seeps all the way through to her skin. "But I had one thing to hold onto, that Ned Stark was my father. And now I've lost even that."

"Sssh," she hushes him. "That's not true. Rhaegar Targaryen may have sired you, but Father raised you as his own, and that's what matters."

"Do you believe that?"

"I do."

They sit like that for a while and though the silence is not entirely uncomfortable, Sansa feels compelled to do something, so she decides to sing, which she hasn't done in a very long time. It's a simple song, one her Mother used to sing to Rickon when he was still a babe. Perhaps it's silly to sing such a song to a grown man, but Jon doesn't seem to mind. Instead he hums along, his low voice sending pleasant vibrations through her belly.

He grows still and she fears he'll fall asleep like this and she won't be able to move him, so she hooks her arms under his shoulders and urges him to get up. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

She manages to get him to his feet, but he slumps into her, wrapping his arms around her waist again and nuzzling her neck. His nose and lips brush her skin and his beard prickles. It fills her with a warmth that has her insides fluttering. She shakes it off and guides him to the bed, helping him under the furs.

She's about to turn around, but he clasps her hand and whispers: "Please, don't leave me."

His eyes are wide, his full lips slightly parted and there's a genuine fear there, of what she does not know. She rolls him onto his side, facing away from her and crawls in after him. She'll only stay for a couple of moments, until he's fallen asleep.

He reaches for her hand again, lacing their fingers together over his heart. She can feel the scars she couldn't see earlier from the way he was hunched over. If she wanted, she could pull free from his grasp quite easily, but she doesn't. 

When her head hits the pillow, she feels the fatigue settling in her bones, and without thinking, she snuggles closer to Jon's back. He's so warm. It won't hurt if she only closes her eyes for a moment.

His soft snoring starts filling the room and she knows she should leave, but before the conscious thought has had a chance to take form in her mind, sleep pulls her under. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was younger, he used to wonder about his mother. In his dreams she was always beautiful and highborn and her eyes were kind. It's hard to tell from a stone face, but from what he can remember from the stories he heard as a child, he's been right all along.

Jon wakes slowly, head pounding and mouth parched, but apart from that, he's delightfully comfortable. He pulls the soft, warm body in his arms closer to his chest and buries his face in her hair, breathing in her scent of lemon and lavender.

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut so he'll fall back asleep, but impressions from the previous day start trickling into his mind.

When he opens his eyes, they meet dark red hair and the knowledge he's been subconsciously aware of since he woke up hits him fully. The slender form curled into his body belongs to Sansa.

He has no desire to let her go, but he knows he needs to do so before she wakes up. He shifts his hips away from hers, but she snuggles her upper body closer, pressing her back flush to his chest.

Suddenly her breathing changes and she starts turning around in his arms until she's facing him. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are barely open and her face is soft and rosy with sleep. Her attempt at a smile morphs into a wide yawn, which she tries to hide behind a hand. She's never looked lovelier.

She reaches out to brush a curl from his face. "How's your head?" she asks, voice thick and coming out through her nose.

"Horrible," he answers, his own voice rough.

"Serves you right!" she tells him, but she's still smiling and her hand travels down his neck to his shoulder and chest.

He closes his eyes as she traces the scar over his heart, shivering under her touch.

She jerks her hand away, balling it into a fist which she tucks close to her chest, and when he glances back up at her face, her cheeks are flushed. His heart starts racing, his mouth going even drier than it already was, so he licks his lips and gulps.

"I have to go," she whispers, averting her eyes, and just like that, the moment is gone, before he's even had a chance to figure out what it means.

***

When Jon leaves the Great Hall, the pounding in his head has dulled to a mild throbbing. He steps out into the courtyard, breathing in the crisp, clean air, eyes closed.

Ghost appears from around the corner and trots up to him, eyes glowing red in the early-morning half-light. He bumps his nose into Jon's shoulder. Jon cards his hands through the wolf's thick white fur and smiles.

"Hey, boy. Where have you been?"

His muzzle is still stained a light pink.

"You been hunting, huh? Did you enjoy yourself?"

When he looks up, Daenerys is striding toward him, bundled up in layers of fur. He groans silently. He's not ready for this yet. 

The smile she offers him is tense. "It's almost been two days since I last saw you."

He continues petting Ghost's neck. "I've been busy."

She puts a hand on his upper arm and smirks seductively. "I was waiting for you last night. It was getting quite cold without you, even under all those furs."

He risks a glance at her face, wondering how she manages to sound sultry and reproachful at the  same time. The hard set of her mouth betrays her impatience.

His head starts pounding again and he purses his lips. He almost feels like a lad being scolded by Old Nan. He decides to keep his explanation as close to the truth as possible. "I had some matters to discuss with Sansa."

She retracts her hand and he knows it was the wrong thing to say. "What kind of matters?"

"She'll be taking care of everything while we're away. Just settling some details."

"Details that took all night to discuss?" Her eyes are narrowed and her fists clenched.

He can feel Ghost tense up, so he drops his hand, flexing his fingers. He shrugs. "I was tired."

Her nostrils flare. "Don't lie to me, Jon Snow. You reek of ale. So you prefer spending the night drinking with Sansa Stark to sharing my bed?"

Ghost turns to her, baring his fangs in a silent growl, hackles raised. She doesn't flinch. She's the Mother of Dragons, after all, but Jon can smell her fear and fury.

He shakes his head, snapping out of it. "Ghost, enough." The direwolf blinks and retreats. Jon takes a deep breath, turning away from her. "I was on my way to the crypts. I'll see you later."

"I'll come with you."

He whirls around, lashing out. "No! You can't!"  _You don't belong there._

She does wince now. She's startled and the flash of hurt in her eyes is already turning to rage. He starts to apologize, meaning to explain, but he thinks better of it and takes off, leaving her there.

Was this revelation the last drop, the last push to the wedge driving them apart? Or did it simply illuminate the truth that's been there all along? 

He wonders once again whether his decision to act on that pull he felt between them and her growing affection for him was a good idea. He assumed it would aid his cause, and for a while it did, but he's no longer sure it was all worth it.

At the time he even believed he might come to love her, but he should have known that to be an idle hope as soon as Sansa asked him about his feelings that day in the Great Hall.

On his way down to the crypts he keeps expecting some force to draw up an invisible wall keeping him out or to physically expel him, but there's nothing aside from his own feelings of discomfort.

 _You don't belong here._ Does that apply to him as well? Unlike Daenerys, he still has Stark blood and perhaps that's enough for the old Kings of Winter.

He pauses in front of Ned Stark's statue.  _Why didn't you ever tell me the truth, Father? Or should I call you Unce now?_ He doesn't linger, but descends deeper, until he's standing in front of Lyanna Stark's effigy.

When he was younger, he used to wonder about his mother. In his dreams she was always beautiful and highborn and her eyes were kind. It's hard to tell from a stone face, but from what he can remember from the stories he heard as a child, he's been right all along.

Heavy footsteps approach and Sam joins him. They stand side by side in silence for a while, until Sam clears his throat and asks: "So, that's your mother?"

"Aye," he answers. "And Ned Stark is not my father."

"No," Sam muses. "That's Rhaegar Targaryen. Sounds quite incredible, doesn't it?"

Jon chuckles. "It does." He reminds himself he should find some winter roses to lay at her feet, like Fa- his uncle used to do. "Why do you think she did it? Run away with a prince who was already married? Keep her family in the dark? Hurl the entire realm into chaos?"

Sam arches an eyebrow. "She loved him."

He huffs, but Ygritte's face appears before his mind's eye.  _We should have stayed in that cave._ And what would have happened if he had? But he didn't, and he can't imagine making a different choice now.  _No,_ he decides,  _that's not me._

But then another memory comes to him, of Sansa coughing and scrunching her nose after trying his ale at Castle Black. He made up his mind then. He was going to take her with him, go South, where no one knew who they were, cross the Narrow Sea to Essos perhaps, leave his duty and responsibilities to others.  _But that was different._

"Is this why you've been avoiding me?" he asks Sam. "Because you were afraid you wouldn't be able to keep your mouth shut?"

"I suppose that was part of it."

He can feel his friend's hesitation. "What else?"

"Well, Daenerys mostly," he confesses. "I saw you with her and... She's your aunt."

"Aye, she is." But we didn't know that, she still doesn't. Yet another secret to deepen the chasm between them.

"Jon?" Sam's voice startles him. "There's err... more. Bran saw something else."

He turns to his friend, but Sam can't meet his eyes and he's fiddling his fingers nervously. "He saw my father, and Dickon. They refused to bend the knee. She burned them alive."

 _I ask you not to judge a daughter by her father's crimes._ Sam is trembling like a leaf and Jon suspects his own face must be frozen in a mask of horror. He can't say he never suspected such things, but somehow knowing is much worse.

He doesn't know what to tell his friend. Sam has told him what a horrible father Randyll Tarly was, a father who threatened to have him killed, but still his father nonetheless. "Sam... I- I'm sorry. I swear I didn't know. I-"

He's saved by the sound of metal clattering to the ground. He draws Longclaw and swiftly runs over to the source of the sound. Theon Greyjoy is cowering in a corner, curled up into a ball, arm covering most of his face.

He and his sister Yara, whom he'd managed to free from his uncle Euron's claws, arrived a couple of days ago. Most of the Ironborn stayed back at Daenerys' camp, but Sansa allowed Theon to stay within the walls of Winterfell.

"What are you doing here?" Jon barks, hit by the realization that he must have heard everything.

"Hi-hiding," he stammers, lowering his arm. "A lot of people out there aren't happy to see me."

"I can't imagine why," he bites back, but then remembers he's supposed to have forgiven Theon for what he did and stretches out his arm to help him up.

Sam is no longer standing where he left him. Jon clenches his teeth.  _You know nothing, Jon Snow, you're a thrice-damned fool._

Theon nods at Lyanna's statue. "I promise I won't tell a soul."

Jon nods back. He isn't sure why, but he believes him. Yet now that it's out in the open, is this a secret they can hope to keep? Why did Bran tell him?

"So you're not Ned Stark's bastard, but Rhaegar Targaryen's?" 

He shrugs. "His trueborn son, apparently. My real name is Aegon Targaryen." He cringes at the words coming out of his mouth. 

Theon gasps. "That means you're the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!"

That didn't even occur to him yet. "Do you think I should tell her?"

He doesn't need to ask who he's referring to. "I don't think she'd take it well. For years she's believed that Throne is hers. If you take that away from her now..."

He frowns, thinking about the rare glimpses of the woman behind the Queen he's seen. "I think she's lonely. She might be happy to discover she still has family left."

"She might," Theon concedes. "But perhaps she's come too far to change her path now."

The unexpected confidence in Theon's voice convinces him. "So I don't tell her just yet. Perhaps later... After the war."

He's about to leave when Theon calls out his name. "Jon... Ned Stark is still your father. And you don't have to choose. You are a Targaryen, and you are a Stark."

 _I'm not a Stark,_ he thinks,  _and I don't want to be a Targaryen._ He still offers him a half-smile and nods. "Aye, perhaps I can be both." But he'll have to choose anyway.

When he emerges from the crypts, his attention is drawn by a peal of laughter. Sansa is across the courtyard, throwing her head back in delight as Ghost tries to lick her face. She wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his fur.

Jon leans back against the wall, smiling. It never really was much of a choice at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stops him from rising with a hand on his arm. "There's no need." She's pushed the other Queen far enough tonight. That doesn't mean the game should end though, she muses.
> 
> "Ser Jaime," she calls out. "Will you please walk me to my chambers?"
> 
> Jaime Lannister steps out of the shadows behind the dais and offers her his arm. "Your Grace."
> 
> She takes it and offers Jon a smile. "Goodnight, Jon."
> 
> "Goodnight, Sansa," he mutters, glowering at his tankard.
> 
> "Perhaps your brother isn't as much of a dolt as I believed him to be," Ser Jaime muses when they're out of earshot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your amazing comments blow me away every time! Thank you!

Two more nights and Jon and Daenerys will be heading North with the remaining troops. The actual farewell feast will take place on their last night in Winterfell, but they're all having supper in the Great Hall tonight to lift spirits.

The food is modest, but the hall is full and warm and merry, and there are singers and musicians, and the ale and wine flow freely. Jon is late, and sitting in his usual spot next to Daenerys at the other end of the high table is Harry Hardyng. The Dragon Queen is acting almost inappropriately affectionate with the young Vale knight, who seems to be enjoying her attention.

Jon enters the Great Hall and frowns at the scene in front of him. His eyes travel to Sansa and she pats the seat next to her, which is usually occupied by Bran. Her brother chose to stay in his chambers to look for more clues to help them defeat the Night King.

Jon hesitates, but then Daenerys puts her hand on the arm he damaged the day before and he averts his eyes, walking over to accept Sansa's invitation. When he sits down, she offers him her plate and fills a tankard of ale for him.

He glances at the plate.

"I'm not hungry," she tells him.

He downs the ale and tears a piece of bread apart. He looks more distraught than usual and she wonders whether it's simple annoyance at Daenerys' embarassing display or whether her little scheme is actually working. She wonders why the Dragon Queen is resorting to such plans at all.

She sighs and leans in until her arm is brushing Jon's. He turns his head until their noses are almost touching. "I met Ser Harrold during my time in the Vale," she whispers. "He was about to become a father for the second time. His lady love was called Saffron, so I asked him whether he was planning to name the babe Cinnamon or Cloves."

His mouth falls open and he barks out a laugh. From the corner of her eye Sansa can see Daenerys glaring at them.

"So he's married?"

She picks a dried fig from Jon's plate - one of the last of a delicacy Daenerys brought with her from across the Narrow Sea, given to her by Tyrion as a peace offering - and leans back in her chair. "Oh, no," she tells him. "Two children and two different mothers so far, I believe."

"I should have cut off his arm," he growls.

She shakes her head before taking a delicate bite. "He's terribly flawed," she continues, "but he's handsome enough. He has a very nice smile."

He puts his tankard down with a thud and stares at her. "You think so?"

She hums in agreement before tucking the last bit of fig into her mouth and licking her fingers. That does the trick, Daenerys pushes herself to her feet and comes over to drape herself over the armrest of Jon's chair, effectively inserting herself between him and Sansa.

"I just realized we've never danced before," she purrs. "It would please me greatly to dance with you, Jon Snow."

She doesn't need to see him to imagine the look on his face. Jon hates dancing.

"I hate to disappoint you, My Queen, but I'm afraid I'm a terrible dancer. I'm sure Ser Harrold would be up to the task though. He seems eager to please you."

Sansa mentally thanks the Old Gods and the New she's learned to control her facial expressions. It seems Daenerys hasn't mastered that skill though. Her face falls, but she returns to Harry and takes Jon's advice anyway, perhaps interpreting it as a challenge.

Jon sighs loudly. "I yield, Sansa. I'm afraid I don't understand women at all. This morning she was annoyed because we don't spend enough time together and now that we're both here, she wastes her attention on Harry Hardyng."

"She was annoyed?"

He nods. "Furious even, I'd say, because I was with you last night?"

"You haven't told her about...?" She lets the question trail off, afraid to say too much with an audience present.

"No, of course not. Why?"

"No reason at all," she assures him as she gets up. "I think I'll retire now, Jon. I need to start preparations for the feast early tomorrow."

He empties his cup. "I'll escort you back to your chambers."

She stops him from rising with a hand on his arm. "There's no need." She's pushed the other Queen far enough tonight. That doesn't mean the game should end though, she muses.

"Ser Jaime," she calls out. "Will you please walk me to my chambers?"

Jaime Lannister steps out of the shadows behind the dais and offers her his arm. "Your Grace."

She takes it and offers Jon a smile. "Goodnight, Jon."

"Goodnight, Sansa," he mutters, glowering at his tankard.

"Perhaps your brother isn't as much of a dolt as I believed him to be," Ser Jaime muses when they're out of earshot.

She arches an eyebrow and he smirks at her. As they leave the hall, he looks back over his shoulder and sighs: "Ah, young love."

She risks a glance as well. Daenerys is still dancing with Ser Harrold. Jon still looks furious, but his murderous glare is directed at Jaime Lannister, not Harry Hardyng.

***

Jon finds her in the maester's turret the next morning. His greeting smile makes her heart beat a little faster.

Waking up in his arms yesterday made her realize the love she holds for him is not that of a sister for her brother. Daenerys' attempts to make him jealous and his reaction to Ser Jaime ignited a spark of hope in her heart that he might return that love, but she can't allow herself to dream.

"I came to see if there were any important messages," he tells her.

"So did I. Maester Wolkan isn't here yet."

"Perhaps he had other duties to attend to."

When they reach the highest floor, the ravens remain silent however, so she suspects the maester has already fed them. Her attention is drawn by movement in Daenerys' camp and Jon joins her looking out the window.

"They're already breaking up camp," he notes.

"They are."

He frowns. "That group of Dothraki over there is leaving... But they're moving south!"

She realizes he's right. "What is she doing?"

He flexes the fingers of his sword hand. "I'll go and find out."

They meet Maester Wolkan halfway down the stairs.

"Your Grace!" he exclaims. "I was looking for you. This came before dawn."

He hands her a scroll and she moves to the nearest window to read it, Jon leaning over the back of her shoulder. She ignores the pleasant flip of her stomach at his closeness.

The message opens with a salutation to Daenerys, listing all of her titles.

 

_Your Grace,_

_Dragonstone is under siege. With the small regiment you've left here, we are powerless against the combined forces of the Ironborn and the Golden Company._

_Please send aid. Your men do not intend to yield, but they will surely die._

_Your loyal servant_

_Maester Pylos_

 

She grabs Jon's arm, panic and rage twisting her insides. "She's abandoning us!"

He looks down to where she's touching him and covers her hand with his own. "I won't let her!"

***

Daenerys is standing in the middle of the camp, shouting instructions in Dothraki and High Valyrian.

Jon and Brienne jump down from their horses and Brienne helps Sansa dismount. Ghost presses himself into her side and she clasps a handful of his fur in her gloved hand to calm herself.

On the way here they decided Jon should try to talk to Daenerys alone first, so Sansa stays back with her sworn shield and the direwolf as Jon walks over to the Dragon Queen.

They're close enough for her to understand their conversation.

"Are you leaving without saying goodbye?" Jon calls out as he approaches her. It's a good opener.

Daenerys regards him with no sign of emotion on her face. "You would have had the chance if you'd come to my chambers last night."

"You didn't appear to be missing my company," he points out.

"Dragonstone is under siege," she informs him, changing the subject.

He holds up the letter. "So I've heard. That's why you're leaving? You're taking all of your troops and your dragons?"

"It is. I won't call back my armies that have already travelled North. For now."

Sansa can only see his back, but it's enough to see how angry he is. "You're Queen and Protector of the Realm. You can't just walk away from your duty!"

She takes a step forward and Ghost lowers himself into a crouch. "It is my duty to protect my Kingdom against  _all_ threats. Cersei Lannister is a threat." She notices Sansa. "And so is she. The North has a Queen of its own. Let _her_ protect its people."

"How many times do I have to tell you Sansa is not your enemy?"

"It doesn't matter," she tells him. "I'm a dragon and I'm tired of playing the games of lesser beasts. I'll take back what is mine with fire and blood."

"So you've made your decision? You're abandoning your people in their hour of greatest need?"

There's surprise on her face at the calmness of his voice, but she nods.

"Fine," he says and Sansa can hear him exhale heavily through his nose. "I won't stop you, but if you leave now, I'll reveal the truth."

She narrows her eyes. "Which truth?"

"You're not the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

Sansa can't contain herself any longer. Before Brienne can react she runs to Jon, closing the distance between them. "Jon! No!"

When he glances back at her, his eyes are desperate, but determined. He knows he's taking a risk, but he won't let her change his mind.

He turns to face Daenerys again. "You have a good claim as Rhaegar's sister, but not as good as Rhaegar's son."

"Rhaegar's son is dead," she spits at him. "Murdered by the usurper's dog Tywin Lannister."

"He had another one, by his second wife, Lyanna Stark."

"Impossible," she whispers.

"It had to be kept a secret, for my own safety. We only found out a couple of days ago."

Daenerys' lips part as she puts together the pieces, but then the fire erupts behind her eyes.  _He's woken the dragon._

"This has been your plan all along... To enlist me in your war, in the hope I'd perish and you could take the Throne from me. I won't give you the satisfaction of an easy victory."

Her nostrils flare and she stalks over to Sansa. "It was your idea, wasn't it? Always scheming behind my back... But you're not as smart as you think you are. You'll never be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"

Sansa is about a head taller than Daenerys, and when she squares her shoulders and tilts her chin up, the other Queen has to strain her neck to meet her eyes.

"Once I've dealt with the Lannister woman, I'll come back North," she threatens. "If I find any Northerners still left standing in my way, I'll burn them all. And I'll start with you!"

It all happens incredibly fast. There's a flash of white and Sansa stumbles. Then a blood-curdling shriek and a dull thump. When she regains her footing, Daenerys is on her back and the left side of her face is a bloody mess. 

Brienne is pulling her back to the horses, but Sansa keeps screaming Jon's name. Somehow she gets up on her horse, tears clouding her vision. She screams until her throat is raw and she can only sob.

She's hardly aware they're riding back to Winterfell, only half registering when the gates are opened and they're allowed through. 

Someone helps her from her horse and she's enveloped in a pair of strong arms. A familiar comforting smell of pine, leather and snow fills her nostrils and her body relaxes, breaking down in sobs again.

Jon strokes her hair and his lips are at her ear, whispering: "I'm here, sweet girl, I'm right here."

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't bother to come up with titles for the individual chapters, but this one would probably be called Kissed by Fire...

Jon finds himself drinking for the third night in a row. The feast is a gloomy affair, despite Sansa's best efforts. He feels like he's wasting time, sitting here doing nothing, but he'll stay for her sake. He has spent the afternoon preparing his departure. He's talked to Bran as well, who seems confident everything will work out, but refuses to tell him anything more.

Tyrion has agreed to remain in Winterfell and await Daenerys' return, hoping he can make her see reason. If anything good has come from her turning her back on them, it's that Arya's decided to stay as well, to protect her sister. 

He turns to look at Sansa. She smiles and nods when someone approaches the high table to address her, but she's less talkative than usual. Her eyes are drooping and once or twice she has to suppress a yawn. This morning's events and all the work she still insisted on doing during the day have taken their toll on her. 

He leans in and whispers. "You look tired."

She offers him a watery smile. "I'm just worried, is all."

He regrets that this own decision has added to those worries, but what's done is done. Daenerys had already made up her mind and his revelation only accelerated the inevitable. "We all are," he sighs. "Bran and Arya are still here. You should go to bed."

She blinks and nods, rising and holding out her hand. He glances at it before meeting her eyes. 

"Come with me?" she asks. "I have something for you."

He pushes himself to his feet and takes her soft, slender hand in his. They leave the Great Hall and he wishes they could stay like this forever, walking hand in hand in comfortable silence.

When they arrive at her door, she opens it and lets him enter first, nodding at Brienne who's followed them up at a respectful distance. She closes the door behind her and walks over to her dressing table, opening a small drawer.

She walks over to where he's standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, keeping something hidden in her hands. There are tears in her eyes when she glances up at him. He opens his mouth, but closes it again, not sure what to say.

"I don't want you to go," she confesses. "I don't want you to ever leave me again."

"I have to," he murmurs back.

She nods. "I know that, but I still want you to stay."

He closes his eyes. "I can't."  _I would stay for you. That's exactly why I have to go._

His breath hitches when he notices how close she's come. She wipes the tears that escaped from her eyes from her cheeks. "I know, but I had to say it, just once."

He has the odd feeling she's trying to tell him something else, but he can't figure out what that might be. 

"I made this for you."

She hands him a small piece of black silk. He folds it open and discovers she's embroidered a likeness of Ghost on the handkerchief, complete with lively red eyes.

"It's silly," she shrugs. "But it was always one of my favourite parts in all the songs I used to like: the lady offering her favour to her knight."

"It's not silly," he reassures her. _It's hope._ It's a sign that after all she's suffered, she still hasn't given up. 

Without thinking he lifts the piece of silk to his face to breathe in its scent. It smells like her. When their eyes meet, a blush starts creeping up her cheeks. His heart tries to leap out of his chest and his mouth goes dry.

She steps even closer and all he can see is her face. He can count the light freckles dusting her ivory skin and the thick lashes framing her blue eyes. His gaze drops to her soft mouth.

She gently puts her hands over his collarbones, leaning in to press the lightest of kisses to his lips. She lingers and kisses him again, this time more firmly, before pulling back slightly, eyes cast down and whispering: "I'm sorry."

He tilts her chin up with two fingers, caressing her hair with his other hand. He waits until she meets his eyes again. "Don't be."

He kisses her back, one hand in her hair and the other splayed on her neck and jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. She digs her fingers into his jerkin and her lips part in a small gasp of surprise. He slips his tongue into her mouth. She tastes of apple cakes and wine.

He groans as the kiss deepens, his head spinning as his limbs melt. He can't believe this is happening, didn't even realize until now how much he's wanted it.

Time stands still, but even so they part too soon. She's biting her lip, tempting him to dive in for another kiss, but a small voice in the back of his mind whispers:  _we shouldn't._ He's leaving tomorrow. He's only just found out she's not his sister. 

Whatever this is, he's never felt anything like it before, and it's too much to deal with right now. It overwhelms him, scares him even to the point he can hardly breathe. 

She searches his eyes and releases him, touching her fingers to her kiss-swollen lips. "This only complicates matters, doesn't it?"

He seems to have lost the ability to speak and can only nod. "I-" he tries.

She takes his hand, lifting it up to lace their fingers together. He likes the feel and look of it. "I know. I'm confused, too.... Promise you'll come back to me so we can figure this out?"

"I promise," he whispers roughly.

***

Winter has set in thoroughly in the South as well by now, but Dany's comfortably warm atop Drogon's back. The winds are strong above the Narrow Sea though, so she has to focus on keeping a tight hold on her dragon's scales.

They're alone. It's been just the two of them since Rhaegal decided to turn back North at Moat Cailin. His refusal to obey her commands confirmed Jon Snow's claim that he is her brother's son.

They're blood, but he still betrayed her out of love for another woman. She should have known by the way they look at each other, by the unspoken understanding that passed between them whenever she saw them together. But she told herself she'd never known family, that she simply didn't understand.

The scabs on her face itch and pull at her skin, but she tries to ignore them. The fire in her blood will heal them, but as long as she can feel them, they serve as a reminder of her lover's betrayal. Perhaps she should hope they won't disappear completely, so she'll always remember that she allowed this man who never cared about her to come so close.

For a while she was torn, debating with herself whether to turn back North and burn Winterfell to the ground. The direwolf's attack startled her into seeing her plan to fly south through immediately, but she kept doubting her decision until she passed Harrenhal.

The army of the dead is still a threat as real and urgent as Cersei Lannister. She'll allow the Starks to deal with them first. Perhaps she'll even grant the Northerners mercy, if they agree to bend the knee. But not Jon Snow and his Ice Queen: those two will burn.

She blinks back her tears. She's almost there. She can't face her enemies like this. She'll meet them with fire in her eyes, not tears. 

Even with one dragon instead of two, it's easy to destroy the ships attacking her island. She only hesitates when she spots a familiar face on the flagship.  _Daario Naharis. Will there be no end to the list of traitors?_

She kills any remaining affection she might have had for him when she gives Drogon his final command. "Dracarys," she screams and she vows that Jon Snow will meet the same fate as her previous lover.

Once her tender heart might have given her pause once she'd finished the task, but now these vexations only strengthen her resolve. She won't allow anything or anyone to distract her from her path ever again. 

She can't pretend it doesn't hurt her, what this man has done to her. But she won't let her sadness control her. Instead she surrenders to the hunger. She knows Drogon can feel it too. It makes it hard to judge where she ends and he begins.

 _He's a true dragon, and so am I._ She doesn't need the Dothraki or the Unsullied or devious schemers like Jon Snow. Drogon is her son, and he's the Stallion Who Mounts the World, as the Dosh Khaleen predicted all those years ago. Cersei Lannister tried to take her home, so she'll take hers now and she'll show no mercy.

Drogon is tireless and the journey from Dragonstone to King's Landing doesn't take long. Soon she catches sight of her target: the Red Keep. She doesn't even need to speak the word, Drogon senses what she wants.

She watches as the castle of her forefathers is consumed by the flames.  _It's only stone. Stone can be rebuilt._ She closes her eyes to imagine she can hear the lioness screaming. A deep tremor passes through the air when the part of the keep she recognizes as Maegor's Holdfast from Viserys' picture books collapses.

Suddenly there's a loud rumble, but she feels it before she hears it. The earth beneath King's Landing is shaking, she can see it happening before her eyes. For a moment the city is illuminated by bright green light, the source of which is a fire so hot it almost sears her skin.

There's a deafening silence and then the blast. _What have I done?_ is the last thought that passes through her mind before Drogon is blown out of the sky by the power of the explosion.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She blinks to shake off the memory of the fever dream and continues on. She sees the remnants of a bakery, the baker's skeleton lying next to the oven. Two charred bodies are still entangled in what must have been a passionate coupling. A mother is clutching a babe to her breast, even in death.

Jon and the other Northmen ride north early the next morning. She meets him in the Godswood shortly before he's set to leave.

She takes his hand and he offers her a small smile.

She almost asks  _"May I kiss you again?"_ but then she sees the focused look in his eyes. It wouldn't do to distract him. So instead she just squeezes his hand and asks: "Promise?"

He squeezes hers back and says: "Promise."

***

She stands on the battlements, watching him ride away, staying long after he's disappeared behind the horizon. 

Her face and hands have gone numb when Jaime Lannister comes to retrieve her. He sighs repeatedly and loudly on the way to the keep.

"Is there something you wish to share, Ser Jaime?" she asks offhandedly.

"Perhaps," he starts, pausing as if he's reconsidering. "Perhaps it would be better for you if your brother doesn't return, Your Grace."

"Perhaps you're being too bold, Ser."

"I swore an oath to protect you," he points out. 

She comes to a halt, turning to study his face. "From my own brother?"

He doesn't answer, just holds her gaze for a couple of moments before raising an eyebrow.

"You also vowed to keep my counsel," she reminds him, continuing down the steps.

"Oh, and I shall," he promises, hurrying to keep up. "But I've learnt keeping my mouth shut can be a great dishonour. I do have your best interest in mind, My Queen."

"Your concern is touching, Ser, but completely unnecessary," she tells him before picking up her pace to indicate the conversation is over.  _Besides, Jon is not my brother._

***

The days grow shorter and the nights become darker and colder. Not long after Jon has left, a letter arrives. Maester Wolkan brings it to her in her solar.

"Where did this raven come from, maester?" she asks when she sees the seal.

"Casterly Rock, Your Grace," he informs her.

After she's read it, she calls her brother and sister into the room and tells Jaime to find his brother.

When everyone's present, she hands the letter to Tyrion, who reads it to the others. 

 

_Dear Little Dove_

_I believe congratulations are in order. You can finally call yourself Queen. I can't say that pleases me, but it does offer some comfort to know you were wise enough not to bend the knee to the Mad King's daughter._

_I have terrible news for you. Our Good Queen Daenerys has burned King's Landing to the ground. I can't bear to think of all the poor unfortunate souls who lost their lives in this tragedy._

_Winter has come, as your dear papa always used to promise, and so has the time to band together against our common enemy. We both know any agreement with the Targaryen bitch is pointless, but I'm willing to make the same offer to you that I once proposed to your brother. I will agree to a truce between House Lannister and House Stark, if you agree to stay neutral in this conflict between me and the Dragon Queen._

_I'll even sweeten the deal. In return for your help, I'll grant the North its independence. Ponder your decision wisely, Little Dove, but don't take too long._

_Give Tyrion my regards. Tell my other brother his child died in my womb after he abandoned me and that I'm set to wed Euron Greyjoy upon his return from Pyke._

_Cersei of House Lannister, First of her Name, Queen of the First Men, the Andals and the Rhoynar, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

 

"Do you think it's true? Do you believe Daenerys would do such a thing?" she asks when he's finished.

Tyrion rubs his beard, looking over the letter again. Jaime is pacing the room and Arya's nails are digging into the armrest of Sansa's chair.

"Maybe Cersei did it herself," she offers.

"Possibly," Tyrion admits.

"It was a trap," Bran says.

Suddenly Jaime stops pacing, thrusting his golden hand into the wall, and shouts: "Of course it was a trap!"

Sansa flinches and Arya veers up.

He looks down at his brother, rage in his eyes and panting.

Tyrion's eyes grow large and then he nods. "Of course... The Mad King Aerys had hundreds of caches of wildfire hidden in the tunnels beneath the city."

"But you used those to fight off Stannis in the Battle of the Blackwater," Sansa objects.

"Not all of them. We had the Pyromancers produce more of it, just in case."

"And Cersei found more of Aerys' stash, which she used to blow up the Great Sept of Baelor."

"Apparently she still had enough left."

It's horrible to even imagine all those people being burned alive, but she can't deny that it's brilliant. Only Cersei would be able to come up with such a plan and be ruthless enough to see it through.

Who would want a Queen who destroyed the capital of the kingdom she wishes to rule, who wiped out its entire population in one stroke? Who would be left to point out that Cersei must have tricked Daenerys into attacking the city, while she'd fled to the safety of Casterly Rock?

"We can't trust Cersei," she decides, "and we can't trust Daenerys either."

"Cersei can't win," Tyrion points out. "Even with the help of her sellswords, she's no match for the Dothraki and the Unsullied."

Arya nods. "And she still has two dragons."

"Just the one," Bran disagrees. "Rhaegal has flown North to Jon."

All eyes in the room fly to his face, and Jaime and Tyrion exchange questioning looks.

Jaime shakes his head. "I came here riding up the Kingsroad and never met any trouble. If Daenerys sends her armies North again, the weather might slow them down, but there will be no one to stop them until they reach Winterfell."

"I'll take care of her armies," Arya says calmly. 

Sansa clasps her hand, but she retracts it gently.

"You?" Jaime scoffs. "I've heard what you did to Walder Frey, but you can't hope to kill an entire army!"

"I'm not going to kill them," she corrects him. "I'm going to lead them."

Another look of disbelief passes between the Lannister brothers. "And how exactly were you planning to accomplish that?" Tyrion asks.

Sansa already knows the answer.

Arya shrugs. "It's easy. All I need is her face."

***

Dany walks through the wasteland that used to be King's Landing just days ago. It's eerily quiet, apart from the sound of her dragging her wounded leg and the few fires that are still burning.

Her face is glowing hot and her head feels too large for the rest of her body, spinning out of control, almost making her forget how to put one foot in front of the other. Perhaps this is another nightmare, she muses.

_Jon Snow was standing alone in the middle of a frozen lake. She ran to him, but he drew his sword and pierced her heart in one swift thrust. They both watched with fascination as the blade came out clean, only to melt away in his hand. She turned her back on him, not even turning around when he called out her name._

_If I look back, I am lost._

_The wound in her chest started to smoke and sizzle, tearing itself open until she shed her human flesh and the dragon erupted from the empty shell that had once been Dany._

_If I look back I am lost._

_The dragon flew over the masses who called out to her, the slaves she'd freed in Meereen, the people of King's Landing and the wights she'd seen beyond the Wall. She opened her mouth to tell them dragons plant no trees, but flames erupted from her throat and they were all consumed by the fire._

She blinks to shake off the memory of the fever dream and continues on. She sees the remnants of a bakery, the baker's skeleton lying next to the oven. Two charred bodies are still entangled in what must have been a passionate coupling. A mother is clutching a babe to her breast, even in death.

_If I look back, I am lost._

Snow and ash drift down around her, coating her hair and skin in a grimy film. At last she reaches Aegon's Hill. She doesn't even know why she came. There's nothing left for her here.

But then a voice whispers:  _"To go forward, you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow."_

She decides to start climbing. She enters through the remnants of the gates. The skeleton of the throne room is still standing. Snow and ash have already invaded it and when she crosses the room she can see that there is snow on the Iron Throne.

She's close enough to touch it, but then Drogon screeches overhead.  _I've seen this before._

She turns, almost expecting a gate to appear and open, the way it did in the House of the Undying, but instead she can see a figure stumbling toward her.

It steps into the light and she can see the wight, heavy chains connecting the shackle around its neck to the ones around its wrists. It opens its mouth and at first there is nothing but a shriek, but when she listens more closely, she can hear it rasp:  _"Help me!"_

It's only then she sees the Night King, whip in hand, staring at her. "Mother of Dragons," he whispers, and her blood turns to ice in her veins. "Breaker of Chains."

***

Davos clears his throat. "The trenches are ready, my lord."

Jon nods and pushes himself to his feet. "They've been filled?"

The grizzled man folds his hands behind his back. "The northernmost with branches and leaves, and the one closest to us with snow, as instructed."

"Command the men to retreat to the camp, I don't want anyone near the trenches tonight."

"But the fires still need to be lit," he objects.

"I'll take care of that, Ser Davos," he sighs.  _I hope you're right ,Bran._

His horse is already saddled, so he can ride east to Long Lake.

On the way there, he mulls over the course of the war so far to distract himself from what he's about to do.

The Last Hearth was lost and abandoned, but their forces managed to beat back the wights at the border of the Karstark lands. The wights have since crossed the Kingsroad, keeping to the west of it as they advance south, unable as they seem to be to cross the Last River.

He's had two wide, deep trenches dug between the mountains and the western shore of Long Lake, at its northernmost point, where the distance is smallest. The bulk of their forces are on the eastern shore of the lake, where they suspect the wights will be sent once the Others realize they're walking into a trap.

Once it gets colder and the rivers freeze over, the wights will be able to cross, so they hope to strike hard now, and reduce their numbers significantly.

A mile from the shore Jon dismounts, sending his horse back to the camp with a slap to its hindquarters. The beast would only get upset coming too close to the new inhabitant of the lake.

The water is steaming when he reaches the edge and at his whistle the originator of that odd phenomenon emerges from the lake in its green and bronze glory.

Rhaegal lands only a couple of feet away and Jon walks toward him slowly but steadily, showing no fear. He reaches out to pat his snout. "Ready to light the greatest fire the North has ever seen?"

The dragon screeches happily and lowers its long neck, so Jon can mount him. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on I won't be able to post as frequently as I have been doing this week, but I think I can have another chapter ready by Monday.
> 
> I think this will be 12 chapters in total... Not my intention when I started writing this fic, but I feel like I should have gotten used to that by now :')


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